by M C Beaton
“This is ridiculous,” gasped Lord Gerald, grabbing hold of her and forcing her to stop. “What the devil—”
The ground beneath them suddenly seemed to heave as a deafening explosion rent the air and a great shock wave threw them on their faces. They lay very still. For a while Lord Gerald could hear nothing but the thumping of his heart. Then a great silence fell and he slowly turned his head to one side and looked at Ginny.
Her frivolous blue hat had tumbled off and lay a yard away in the grass in front of her. She had her arms tightly clasped over the top of her head and was lying very still.
He gingerly sat up and looked back to where they had come from.
The rotunda lay in smoking ruins and a column of black smoke climbed up lazily into the blue sky.
Shouts and cries and the sound of running feet were coming from the direction of Courtney.
Lord Gerald turned Ginny over and looked down at her. Her face was very white but she gave him a trembling smile and said, “It’s like the fifth of November.”
“How did you know what was going to happen?” asked Gerald curiously.
“I saw the fuse,” said Ginny. “I thought it was a raindrop sparkling in the sun. Then I saw it was the lit end of a fuse going into the foundations. I thought that by the time I ran down and round and put it out, we would be blown to smithereens.”
The servants came running up, followed closely by Cyril, Jeffrey, and Tansy. Lord Gerald looked at them all thoughtfully. Then he explained what had happened and sent one of the footmen to fetch the local constable.
“It’s probably them Bolshevists,” said Harvey, much shaken, “or some of them hooligan suffragettes. Women firing on the trains, madam, and now this.”
“Perhaps the police might have some idea,” said Gerald, helping Ginny to her feet. “All the workmen will have to be questioned closely.”
But neither the local policemen nor the inspector nor the gentlemen from Scotland Yard who arrived on the following day could find any solution to the mystery.
No stranger had been spotted near the village or on any of the surrounding roads. As perfect day followed perfect day and no other sinister thing happened, every one began to believe it had been the work of some madman, and life at Courtney settled back into its usual routine. The ball, which had been postponed for fear of other dramatic happenings, was once again planned.
On the day before the ball Ginny had gone out driving with Peter Paster, leaving a sad and lonely Alicia behind. Lord Gerald felt that Ginny was intriguing again and he was so angry with her, that he decided to travel up to town, stay at his club, and buy a motorcar—assuring himself that he had always wanted a motorcar and was not simply buying it to irritate Ginny. He would not attend the ball.
He sat down to write a refusal and then stopped and frowned. Did he really want to miss it? That dratted girl had him going around in circles. Therefore, instead, he wrote a short note saying he was called away to town on business and that he would try his best to return in time for the ball. That would leave both choices open to him.
By the time he had bought himself a smart leaf-green Lanchester with a great shiny horn on the side and handsome brass lamps, he was feeling more in charity with the world in general and Ginny in particular. It was odd, he thought, how fond he was of her when he was not precisely in her company. A pretty fair-haired girl in blue silk was tripping along the other side of Piccadilly.
This is ridiculous, he thought. And after all, I did promise poor Alicia a dance. She’ll have no one to dance with, now that Ginny’s taken Peter away from her.
He decided he would have an early dinner at his club and then catch the seven o’clock train. The car was not to be delivered until the following day and Peter would have to give him some lessons on how to drive the thing anyway.
But his train stopped and started and stopped and started and finally broke down altogether, and there was an endless wait until whatever was up with the stupid, smoking coaly beast was repaired. It was nearly midnight by the time he reached his home and roused his valet to find his evening clothes.
The ballroom was at the back of the house and he decided to walk around and enter by the French windows. He wanted to see if there would be any expression at all in Ginny’s blue eyes when he suddenly appeared. As he approached by way of the garden he heard the festive sounds of cheering and popping champagne corks.
He stood at the entrance to the window.
Ginny was wearing a smoky-violet chiffon dress that seemed moulded to her form. Her eyes were like stars. She was hanging onto Peter’s arm and as Lord Gerald watched, Ginny raised herself on tiptoe and kissed Peter on the cheek.
“What’s going on?” he asked the nearest guest, who happened to be Cyril.
“D-don’t you know?” said Cyril sourly. “Wedding bells all round. Peter’s engaged to be married.”
Gerald looked across at Ginny’s radiant face and shining eyes. There was no sign of Alicia. He turned on his heel and walked from the ballroom.
He walked in the garden for a long time, while the sounds of cheering and popping champagne corks went on. He could have killed Ginny. Blood would out in the long run, he thought savagely. This is what came of encouraging the attentions of a common little slut with a swinging brick for a heart.
The dreamy strains of a Strauss waltz floated out into the night air, that very same waltz he had danced with Ginny.
Lord Gerald de Fremney took himself off home to get well and truly drunk.
He was awakened by his man late the following morning and he rose shakily to find that the treacherous English weather had decided to match his mood. Rain fell with unremitting violence, roaring in the eaves and making great puddles in the velvet of the lawns.
He could not remember ever having had such a hangover—even on Boat Race night. The gloomy light outside hurt his eyes and his mouth felt like a gorilla’s armpit.
By the time he was barbered and dressed, the shooting pains behind his eyes had gone and he was left with a weak feeling of lassitude.
He would ride out and see what damage this infernal rain was doing to his harvest. Probably smashing the corn flat. He pulled on an old waterproof riding coat and a hard hat with a skip and set off on his rounds. By the time he had got to the Jones’s farm at the far boundary of his land, the water was dripping steadily from his hat down inside his coat and then running from the hem of his coat and seeping into his jodhpurs.
“Good heavens, m’lord,” said Mr. Jones. “You’ll catch your death, that’s for sure. Best come in and warm yourself at the fire.”
He pushed open the kitchen door and Gerald caught sight of a roaring wood fire and the shine of polished copper pans.
“Very kind of you, Jones,” he said, dismounting stiffly.
He allowed himself to be helped out of his wet coat after assuring himself that his horse was receiving a good rubdown in the farmer’s stables.
He pulled off his boots and stretched his wet stockinged feet to the cheerful blaze.
“Now, m’lord,” said Farmer Jones, rubbing his hands with pleasure at the sight of such exalted company in his kitchen. “I’ve got the very thing to warm you up. My missus do make the best blackberry brandy between here and Maidstone, that she do, and you shall taste it drectly.”
Lord Gerald refused as gracefully as he could, but Mr. Jones would not take no for an answer. “Best thing for this cold, damp weather, m’lord. Puts the heart back in a man, that it does.”
So the blackberry brandy was duly brought in, winking evilly in its squat bottle. Lord Gerald was poured a handsome glassful. He decided the best way to get it down was to swallow it in one gulp like medicine—which he did.
It was very potent, and for one moment he thought the top of his head was about to blast off and disappear into outer space like one of Mr. H. G. Wells’s rockets to the moon. Then he felt a comforting glow spreading through his veins.
He gave the anxious Mr. Jones a nod of approval.
“Excellent stuff! Excellent,” said Lord Gerald. And, “Have some more, m’lud,” said the much gratified farmer.
* * *
Alicia was sitting discussing the ball with Peter Paster and Ginny Bloggs some time later that dismal and wet day, when Harvey came in and announced that Lord Gerald wished to have a word with Miss Benson. Alicia and Ginny looked around in surprise at the butler and Peter said, “Tell him to come in here, Harvey.”
“His lordship is most insistent that he sees Miss Benson privately.”
“I’ll go,” said Alicia, getting hurriedly to her feet. “One of our friends might be ill.”
She went hurriedly from the room. After a few minutes’ silence while Ginny stitched and Peter gazed at the fire, he suddenly said, “Look, Ginny, I don’t like the idea of Alicia being alone with Gerald. He was rather sweet on her, you know.”
Ginny put down her sewing. “If it will make you feel any better,” she said, “I’ll go along and see what’s happening.”
“Thanks most frightfully,” said Peter. “I would go myself, but you must admit, the situation is pretty delicate.”
Harvey met Ginny in the hall, and in answer to her question, said that he had put Lord Gerald and Miss Alicia in the morning room, because there was a fire there and his lordship had looked soaked to the skin.
Ginny followed a trail of small puddles to the morning room and opened the door. Then she stood very still.
Lord Gerald de Fremney was down on one knee, proposing marriage to Miss Alicia Benson.
Alicia heard a small gasp from the doorway and turned gratefully. “Oh, poor Gerald,” she cried to Ginny. “What am I to do? You tell him, Ginny.” And with that, she ran from the room, leaving Ginny standing looking down at a very wet, very embarrassed, very bedraggled, and very drunk Lord Gerald.
“What the hell… ?” began Gerald.
“Well, really,” said Ginny. “It’s really too bad of you. Poor Alicia.”
Gerald got to his feet and stood swaying slightly. He felt angrier than he had ever been in his life. When he had left the Jones’s on a wave of blackberry brandy, it had seemed a splendid idea to propose to Alicia. Dear Alicia. Always so forthright, so sane. And now for some mad reason it was “poor Alicia.”
“Perhaps your fiancé will join us and make the party complete,” said Gerald, sneering.
“My fiancé?” repeated Ginny, looking at him in pretty bewilderment.
“Oh, don’t try that little-girl act with me,” said Gerald. “I mean Peter Paster. The man you were hugging and kissing last night.”
“I was hugging and kissing Peter last night—I didn’t know you were at my ball, by the way—because I was congratulating him on getting engaged to Alicia.”
Lord Gerald stood dumbfounded while this startling piece of intelligence struggled in a sea of blackberry brandy.
He thought of what a fool he had made of himself, and he thought of how much he would like to wring Ginny’s neck. He felt she had somehow plotted the whole thing. Had it not been for the perfidy of Ginny Bloggs, he would never have proposed to Alicia in the first place.
Shock and rage had sobered him. He looked at Ginny and Ginny looked wonderingly back. Could it be a trick of the firelight or had Lord Gerald’s black eyes actually turned red?
“Ginny Bloggs,” said Lord Gerald, slowly and distinctly. “I never want to set eyes on you again.”
“All right,” said Ginny mildly, and turned and left him fuming on the hearthrug.
* * *
October was rolling its mists around the mellow walls of Courtney. Peter and Alicia had left long ago. Cyril spent his days in seeing as little of his affianced as he possibly could. Jeffrey had been quiet and morose ever since his accident on the fatal day he had tried to abduct Ginny, and Tansy wandered through the rooms like a nervous chainsmoking ghost. She felt if she did not take some sort of action, she would scream. At last she humbled herself enough to ask Ginny if she could travel up to town and see that the town house in Berkeley Square was in order. Ginny had surprisingly agreed and had suggested that the whole household might move up to town about the end of November. Tansy made a rapid escape, leaving Jeffrey to his dark thoughts and Cyril to his nail-biting and Annabelle-avoiding.
Barbara had settled happily into the role of companion to Ginny, her embarrassing hatred having changed to an equally embarrassing devotion. Ginny planned another trip to Bolton, but had refused to allow Barbara permission to travel with her. She would only be gone a week, Ginny had said tactfully, and Barbara was needed at Courtney to see to things.
Barbara was left to wonder what exactly there was to see to. The house was running smoothly, the crops had been gathered in, and in some mysterious way the estate seemed to be showing more of a profit than it had ever done, despite the fact that Ginny had laid out quite a lot of capital on the latest phosphates and farm machinery.
Barbara had tried to protest to Ginny’s traveling without a female companion. But Ginny had explained that she was in too much of a hurry to hire a maid. Her carriage would take her to the station, and she would be traveling in a first-class, “Ladies Only” compartment to London and from there to Bolton, where she would be met at the station by Mrs. Pearsall, so what could possibly happen to her?
But it was pleasant to be allowed to run Courtney, Barbara had to admit, after Ginny’s carriage had bowled off down the drive. No sooner had the carriage passed from sight down the long avenue of limes and out through the lodge gates than Barbara summoned Harvey and proceeded to irritate that gentleman immensely by giving him a long list of fussy and unnecessary commands.
CHAPTER NINE
A week had passed since Ginny’s departure, and Lord Gerald was motoring back home in a thoughtful mood.
He had taken a young lady, very like Alicia, for an evening of dinner and Wagner. They had discussed the latest books and the latest opinions and had found themselves in complete agreement. She had made him feel a witty, cultured man of the world, and it was only now, in retrospect, that he realized he had in fact been bored in a kind of strung-up nervous way, as if he were constantly waiting for something to happen.
I was probably waiting for her to make some silly, irritating remark, he thought. It would take him a long time to get over the humiliation of his drunken proposal to Alicia and the indifference with which Ginny Bloggs had accepted his statement that he never wished to see her again. But what did you expect her to do? a nagging inner voice kept asking. Fall to her knees and beg you to stay?
As he left the lights of Maidstone behind and plunged into the dark lanes of the Kentish countryside, his eye was caught by the flicker of a bonfire among the trees, its black smoke rising up in the cold air to mingle with the blacker blackness of the night sky.
He found himself remembering the day the rotunda had been blown up. Funny he had forgotten about that! Had it been an attempt on Ginny’s life? Tansy, Barbara, Cyril, and Jeffrey all stood to inherit a considerable sum of money should Ginny die. But he could not picture either of the relatives as a murderer. They would play silly, malicious tricks, yes, but murder! It was unthinkable, and this was England, after all.
But then the thought would not go away. Somehow or other, because the explosion had been so improbable, so divorced from the humdrum happenings of their everyday lives, they had dismissed it from their minds. It was unbelievable that such a thing had taken place on the sleepy grounds of a country house; unbelievable that such a thing would happen again.
And what did Ginny think?
What, for that matter, did Ginny Bloggs think about anything? Lord Gerald had once again been courted and feted by his admiring clique of modern hard young women, and knew himself to be considered extremely attractive. He had been a fool to allow himself to let one silly little chit upset him so.
Despite the warmth of his fur coat he shivered in the November cold. The welcoming lights of an inn flickered in the darkness and then vanished from view as the narrow road twisted and cur
ved. He would drop in and warm himself before continuing his journey. It really was beastly cold and he wished now that he had taken the train.
The public bar of the inn was nearly empty, but it was warm and cozy, with a good fire crackling up the chimney and the old oak of the small bar counter gleaming under the soft light of oil lamps hung from the ancient blackened rafters.
Lord Gerald ordered a whisky and hot water and turned to look along the bar.
A telegraph boy, surely too young to be out so late and to be drinking so much, gave him a cheeky wink and remarked, “Cold night out, guv.” His lordship was about to resort to that well-known characteristic of the aristocracy in dealing with inferiors who stepped out of their place by becoming to all intents and purposes totally deaf, but there was something cheerful and cheeky about the boy’s freckled face, so instead he grinned back and agreed it was indeed cold.
Then, “You’re out late,” said Gerald.
“I been delivering a wire up Courtney way,” said the boy, “and very nicely I did out of it, too. Very nicely, guv. A gold sovereign I got for my trouble.”
“Not bad news I hope?” asked Gerald.
“No, gov. It was only to say as how Miss Bloggs was ketchin’ the late train and was for to be met at the station,” said the boy, seemingly unaware of the privacy of His Majesty’s marconigrams.
Gerald thoughtfully finished his drink. He had a sudden overwhelming desire to see Ginny again, to prove to himself that she could no longer upset him. He finished his drink and walked outside.
The cold air hit him like a body blow. Ginny would already be nearly home and it was surely too late for a social call. Furthermore, it was frightfully cold. He cranked up the cold engine of his motor and then stood undecided in the light of its lamps. A carriage was coming along the road at a great rate. Far too fast to be traveling along roads so dark and icy, he thought. Probably some young county bloods with more horseflesh than sense, he reflected. The cold and the dark were somehow upsetting, bringing back the nervous unrest he had felt all evening. Much better to go home to bed and put all his confused emotions to sleep.
